[...] the bullets made no more sound than fingers going into a glove [...]

All she did was take her hand out of her bag, with a gun in it. All she did was point it at me and smile. All I did was nothing.

But that wasn't all that was done. Moose Malloy stepped out of the dressing room with the Colt .45 still looking like a toy in his big hairy paw.

He didn't look at me at all. He looked at Mrs. Lewin Lockridge Grayle. He leaned forward and his mouth smiled at her and he spoke to her softly.

"I thought I knew that voice," he said. "I listened to that voice for eight years -- all I could remember of it. I kind of liked your hair red, though. Hiya, babe. Long time no see."

She turned the gun.

"Get away from me, you son of a bitch," she said.

He stopped dead and dropped the gun to his side. He was still a couple of feet from her. His breath labored.

"I never thought," he said quietly. "It just came to me out of the blue. You turned me into the cops. You. Little Velma."

I threw a pillow, but it was too slow. She shot him five times in the stomach. The bullets made no more sound than fingers going into a glove.

Then she turned the gun and shot at me but it was empty. She dived for Malloy's gun on the floor. I didn't miss with the second pillow. I was around the bed and knocked her away before she got the pillow off her face. I picked the Colt up and went away around the bed again with it.

He was still standing, but he was swaying. His mouth was slack and his hands were fumbling at his body. He went slack at the knees and fell sideways on the bed, with his face down. His gasping breath filled the room.

I had the phone in my hand before she moved. Her eyes were a dead gray, like half-frozen water. She rushed for the door and I didn't try to stop her. She left the door wide, so when I had done phoning I went over and shut it. I turned his head a little on the bed, so he wouldn't smother. He was still alive, but after five in the stomach even a Moose Malloy doesn't live very long.

I went back to the phone and called Randall at his home. "Malloy." I said. "In my apartment. Shot five times in the stomach by Mrs. Grayle. I called the Receiving Hospital. She got away."

"So you had to play clever," was all he said and hung up quickly.

I went back to the bed. Malloy was on his knees beside the bed now, trying to get up, a great wad of bedclothes in one hand. His face poured sweat. His eyelids fickered slowly and the lobes of his ears were dark.

He was still on his knees and still trying to get up when the fast wagon got there. It took four men to get him on the stretcher.

"He has a slight chance -- if they're .25's," the fast wagon doctor said just before he went out. "All depends what they hit inside. But he has a chance."

"He wouldn't want it," I said.

He didn't. He died in the night.

Raymond Chandler, "Farewell, My Lovely"





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[...] he took some photos of me -- with my clothes up to my neck [...]

"How long have you known him?"
"Oh, years. He used to be an announcer at the station my husband owned. KFDK. That's where I met him. That's where I met my husband too."
"I knew that. But Marriott lived as if he had money. Not riches, but comfortable money."
"He came into some and quit radio business."
"Do you know for a fact he came into money -- or was that just something he said?"
She shrugged. She squeezed my hand.
"Or it may not have been very much money and he may have gone through it pretty fast."
I squeezed her hand back.
"Did he borrow from you?"
"You're a little old-fashioned, aren't you?" She looked down at the hand I was holding.
"I'm still working. And your Scotch is so good it keeps me half-sober. Not that I'd have to be drunk --"
"Yes." She drew her hand out of mine and rubbed it. "You must have quite a clutch -- in your spare time. Lin Marriott was a high-class blackmailer, of course. That's obvious. He lived on women."
"He had something on you?"
"Should I tell you?"
"It probably wouldn't be wise."
She laughed. "I will, anyhow. I got a little tight at his house once and passed out. I seldom do. He took some photos of me -- with my clothes up to my neck."
"The dirty dog," I said. "Have you got any of them handy?"
She slapped my wrist. She said softly:
"What's your name?"
"Phil. What's yours?"
"Helen. Kiss me."
She fell softly across my lap and I bent down over her face and began to browse on it. She worked her eyelashes and made butterfly kisses on my cheeks. When I got to her mouth it was half open and burning and her tongue was a darting snake between her teeth.
The door opened and Mr. Grayle stepped quietly into the room. I was holding her and didn't have a chance to let go. I lifted my face and looked at him. I felt as cold as Finnegan's feet, the day they buried him.
The blonde in my arms didn't move, didn't even close her lips. She had a half-dreamy, half-sarcastic expression on her face.

Raymond Chandler, "Farewell, My Lovely"

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[...] it didn't seem to affect her any more than water affects Boulder Dam [...]

"I bet you looked like a dream," I said.
"You're not getting a little tight, are you?"
"I've been known to be soberer."
She put her head back and went off into a peal of laughter. I have only known four women in my life who could do that and still look beautiful. She was one of them.
"Newton is okey," I said. "His type don't run with hoodlums. That's just guessing, though. How about the footman?"
She thought and remembered, then shook her head. "He didn't see me."
"Anybody ask you to wear the jade?"
Her eyes instantly got more guarded. "You're not fooling me a damn bit," she said.
She reached for my glass to refill it. I let her have it, even though it still had an inch to go. I studied the lovely lines of her neck.
When she had filled the glasses and we were playing with them again I said, "Let's get the record straight and then I'll tell you something. Describe the evening."
She looked at her wrist watch, drawing a full length sleeve back to do it. "I ought to be --"
"Let him wait."
Her eyes flashed at that. I liked them that way. "There's such a thing as being just a little too frank," she said.
"Not in my business. Describe the evening. Or have me thrown out on my ear. One or the other. Make your lovely mind up."
"You'd better sit over here beside me."
"I've been thinking that a long time," I said. "Ever since you crossed your legs, to be exact."
She pulled her dress down. "These damn things are always up around your neck."
I sat beside her on the yellow leather chesterfield. "Aren't you a pretty fast worker?" she asked quietly.
I didn't answer her.
"Do you do much of this sort of thing?" she asked with a sidelong look.
"Practically none. I'm a Tibetan monk, in my spare time."
"Only you don't have any spare time."
"Let's focus," I said. "Let's get what's left of our minds-- or mine -- on the problem. How much are you going to pay me?"
"Oh, that's the problem. I thought you were going to get my necklace back. Or try to."
"I have to work in my own way. This way." I took a long drink and it nearly stood me on my head. I swallowed a little air.
"And investigate a murder," I said.
"That has nothing to do with it. I mean that's a police affair, isn't it?"
"Yeah -- only the poor guy paid me a hundred bucks to take care of him -- and I didn't. Makes me feel guilty. Makes we want to cry.
Shall I cry?"
"Have a drink." She poured us some more Scotch. It didn't seem to affect her any more than water affects Boulder Dam.


Raymond Chandler, "Farewell, My Lovely"


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Declarație pe proprie rǎspundere, sub incidența codului literar nostalgic de rit imposibil

Pe vremuri, juram pe Borges și îmi doream sǎ ajung sǎ scriu ca el. Copil tembel, cum tembeli sîntem toți romanticii leșinați care fac umbrǎ acestui pǎmînt cinic și balzacian. Cuțitul oglinda tigrul umbra visul și labirintul bibliotecii din care nu-mi doream sǎ gǎsesc ieșire.

Pe urmǎ, încet-încet, mi-am dat seama de ce Borges a ajuns sǎ-și schimbe dramatic scriitura și chiar sǎ-și repudieze dantelurile din tinerețe. Imposibil de înflorat, damn it. A ajuns sǎ-și doreascǎ sǎ scrie precum vechile saga islandeze. Cuțitul toporul sîngele furia viața bolovanul oaia femeia drakkarul.

Mintea argentinianului cea de pe urmǎ. Înțelepciunea budistului bǎtrîn: “La început, cînd nu știam ce-i aia zen, munții erau munți și apele ape și stîncile stînci. Pe urmǎ, cînd am început sǎ înțeleg zenul, munții dintr-o datǎ nu mai erau munți, nici apele ape, nici stîncile stînci. Acum, cînd cunosc zenul, munții sînt din nou munți și apele ape și stîncile stînci”.

Pe urmǎ, la fel de copil tembel fiind, Ah, din fugă săream sub arţar, smulgându-i o frunză cu dinţii, îmi doream sǎ pot scrie precum Brian Aldiss. Decadența Helliconia peregrinarea cruzimea povestea convoluția. Cred cǎ și azi îmi doresc. N-am eu snaga asta. Ah, din minte sǎream peste mine, smulgîndu-mi speranța cu dinții.

Acum îmi doresc sǎ scriu precum Raymond Chandler și precum Cordwainer Smith. Cîinesc, impecabil, inevitabil și sacadat și fluid. Cruzimea, cruzimea...

Pune-ți ținte imposibile și mergi cǎtre ele, copile. Cum spunea sir Launcelot, încǎlecînd pe calul care de fapt era iapǎ: “Sǎ mergem sǎ cǎutǎm ceea ce nu vom gǎsi niciodatǎ”.

Ah, din minte tot sar peste mine, strepezindu-mi cuvintele cu dinții.




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